


The Complaint Tent No. 2, Darker and Edgier

by shirogiku



Series: Crack Tents [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Bad Jokes, Crack and Angst, Gen, M/M, Pirate Problems, Post-Season/Series 03, The Maroon Island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The complaint tent is back in business!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Complaint Tent No. 2, Darker and Edgier

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Палатка для жалоб-2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10366161) by [rose_rose (Escargot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escargot/pseuds/rose_rose)



The first three days after the battle over the Spanish treasure - and they’re really going to have to come up with a catchier name, for the battle and the island both - Silver spends on one council of war, approximately one hundred confusing internal monologues about Flint, all in surprise Greek and Biblical metaphors - and, despite all the alarms and warning signs from every possible direction, an increasingly improbable amount of sex. Also with Flint.

 

On the fourth day, Jack Rackham invites himself into their tent - well, _Flint’s_ tent - drops down on the makeshift between them, and says:

 

“Gentlemen, something _must_ be done about the fuck tent.”

 

(The war council, by the way, has gone like this - a moment of standing round the table in an awkward silence, until Silver finally asked, “Who speaks first? You… me?”)

 

“And I do mean the fuck tent for the men,” Jack adds, ignoring the pistol in Flint’s hand, “and not just _a_ tent in which you gentlemen are fucking.”

 

“Anne hasn’t been in the mood?” At Jack’s sour look, Silver reaches for his shirt. “Any suggestions about the tent in question?”

 

It has been brought to his attention by several parties - some more aggrieved than others - that New Providence this island is not. Which is to say, there are no lusty wenches lining up to make the men happy, nor there shall ever be, but for some reason, that tends to come as a surprise. Sodomy is on the rise. Huh, that rhymes.

 

“Whores are Blackbeard’s problem,” Flint finally declares, having decided not to shoot someone who was about to fuck up with the fuck tent anyway - it would be too much like a mercy-killing.

 

“Yes, well, they used to be… until this very morning, when they became _my_ problem yet again.” Jack sighs. “I miss Max. She sure got things done. _Don’t_ tell Anne I said that.”

 

“Silent as my conscience,” Silver promises.

 

Flint gives him an interested look. “You have a conscience?”

 

“Yes, and it is silent like the ‘H’ in ‘ _agonía_ ’.”

 

“There _is_ no ‘H’ in that word, Silver.”

 

“Damn it. ‘ _Angustias_ ’?”

 

“Still no.”

 

Jack coughs. “Right, so, as you may or may not remember, the only thing better than a fuck tent is-”

 

“-a complaint tent,” Flint finishes for him. “Now get the fuck out of here before I start complaining.”

 

“Aha! So I _can_ borrow your punching England dummy for our newest enterprise?”

 

“Fuck no!”

 

Silver gestures at Jack that he’ll show him where it’s hidden later.

 

Without Max, they don’t even bother with a shovel. The deal has been radically simplified: punch your dummy of choice, complain (order irrelevant), and go back to annoying people who aren’t Silver or Jack. For a really rather symbolic price.

 

“It’s just not the same when it’s for free,” Jack tells Silver. “Trust me on that.”

 

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of _not_ making money off this thing.”

 

“That’s the spirit!”

 

Next to ‘England’, they install ‘Governor Rogers’. No Miss Guthrie, though, because they do have some standards. And also because Jack may or may not have utterly _savaged_ the stand-in.

 

The first trickle of customers is rather uneventful. Jack and Silver have agreed on four-hour shifts, like on a ship, and the first one is Jack’s. Anne comes back every once in a while, punching exclusively Rogers and complaining about the lack of a second punchable Jack. Flint watches the tent hawkishly, or rather, like a mother hen.

 

“I promise we’ll give it back,” Silver tells him sweetly. “I’ll even mend the tears.”

 

“You can sew?”

 

“No, but you can, so I’ll talk you into showing me how it’s done, on your own ruined dummy.”

 

“How about I sew your mouth shut?”

 

“That’s a Norse myth, we don’t do Norse on this island, only Greeks and Romans.”

 

But then Flint remembers about Philomela.

 

“Point taken.”

 

At the end of Jack’s term as the tent governor, Madi shows up.

 

“... those depths, he says,” Silver overhears. “People never resurface from them, he says. And what does he do next?”

 

“What?” Jack asks, fascinated.

 

“He goes and dives in!” Huh. “Ruins his ears in the process, too. Poor Abimbola, it’s not easy having a diver for a son.”

 

“Even so, he sounds remarkable. I wish I knew a diver like that back in the day. Will that be all?”

 

“Ha! Of course not! Do you know the real reason my mother has been killing all those white men?”

 

“Er.”

 

Madi’s voice dropped to an ominous whisper: “Because a witch doctor once told her that I’m destined to marry a white man and end up running a tavern like Eleanor.”

 

“Oh dear.”

 

Madi laughs. “Just kidding.”

 

Wisely, Silver decides to back away.

 

Flint’s complains are mostly about his hair, or rather, about Silver’s hair _and_ utter lack of tact about the whole hair business.

 

Silver’s watch begins with Jack.

 

“I could have been an _excellent_ Governor!” Jack laments. “Granted, my office was a bit of a mess, but I have an excellent taste in art _and_ books! I tried, so no one can criticise me.”

 

“No one _is_ criticising you.”

 

Silver’s stream of complainers comes in all shapes, sizes and skin colours. Everyone has got a problem with something, including the milk goat, who bleats at him plaintively. It probably just wants to share in on the profits, like all of them. Or to sue him. Or it could be Satan in disguise.

 

“Next!”

 

Dobbs shuffles in awkwardly, looking a bit worse for wear than Silver’s stomach can handle.

 

“You’re dead,” Silver informs him calmly. Some people have to be told the _simplest_ things.

 

“You killed me,” Dobbs argues.

 

“I won us the battle. Next!”

 

“Thief.” Silver follows the compass point of Randall’s knife down to his boot. “Thief!”

 

Oh for fuck’s sake. “Come now, Randall, you knew what the stakes were. Your blood isn’t on my hands.”

 

“Thief,” Randall repeats doggedly.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m a thief, I’ve stolen your life, get over it.” Poor bastard. Now Silver actually misses him again.

 

The third ghost is that of Mrs. Barlow - as he has last seen her alive.

 

He frowns. “I thought you were frolicking on those Elysian fields?”

 

“I found a crack in the wall, so to speak,” is her tight-lipped answer.

 

“So what’s your complaint, then?”

 

“You.” She fixes him with an angry look. “You are a worse enabler than the girl _ever_ was.”

 

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I am sorry, is this somehow _not_ according to your dying wishes? Because I’ve heard a different story.”

 

“Not at the cost of James’s soul!”

 

“There’s no half-pregnant or half-villain. You shake your head now, but wasn’t it you and your husband who started him on this path in the first place? If you get rid of all shame, what is left but a perfect villain? Without shame, there’s nothing to keep you from getting what you want.”

 

“John, _no_.”

 

He smiles. “Then let us agree to disagree, ma’am.” Why the hell does his lethargic conscience look like Mrs. Barlow?

 

When he sees Blackbeard, his first thought is, oh brilliant, the old bastard has kicked the bucket before doing anything even remotely spectacular. But then he realises that he’s probably back to the living now.

 

The look that Blackbeard gives him would have been a lot more terrifying if he hadn’t just faced Mrs. Barlow’s displeasure.

 

“I had a son,” Blackbeard laments. “Such a beautiful son. And what do I get in return? _Rackham_.”

 

“Have you tried talking treacherous women to him yet? Over drink?” That should do it. “Also, about money always disappearing somewhere.”

 

At the end of the day, Silver’s only complaint is: “I haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m doing here.” He knows it’s not the milk goat, so there’s that. And he is pretty sure he isn’t corrupting sweet innocent James either, _or_ being corrupted by him.

 

“Welcome to the club,” England and Rogers say in unison.


End file.
